Freedoms Gift: Return to the Open Road
28–29 mai 2025, Australie ⋅ 🌬 13 °C
As we exchanged our final farewells with Simon, he surprised us with a parting treasure—a small pewter octopus crafted by his own hands. The delicate creature, with its intricate tentacles frozen in metallic splendor, represented not just his artistic skill but the connection we had formed during our multiple stays at Boomer Bay. We carefully nestled this precious memento within our home, another small story-keeper to accompany us on our continuing journey.
With the emotional reunion of family behind us and Simon's generosity sending us forth, we pointed our gold chariot northward along Tasmania's eastern coastline. Our destination existed only as a vague concept—"north" and "coastal" the only parameters guiding our path. After weeks of schedules, appointments, and the beautiful constraints of family gatherings, this return to unstructured wandering washed over us like a cleansing tide. The familiar excitement of unlimited possibility—that particular magic of the open road—rekindled within us as we watched the landscape unfold through our windscreen.
Mayfield Beach, where we had briefly sheltered almost exactly a year earlier, presented itself as our first potential anchorage. Though objectively beautiful with its sweeping shore and convenient facilities, something indefinable about the energy failed to resonate with us on this visit. Perhaps it was the angle of late-autumn light, or maybe the subtle shift in our own perspectives after so many months of Tasmanian exploration, but the connection we seek in our stopping places remained elusive. Without hesitation or regret, we continued our coastal progression, trusting that instinct which has so often guided us to perfect sanctuary.
Not far beyond, we passed the distinctive silhouette of Spikey Bridge—that curious colonial construction of jagged stones that had fascinated Grammy and Fran during their visit over 12 months earlier. Just beyond this historical landmark, we discovered Spikey Beach Day Use area—a modest gravel expanse offering magnificent coastal views while remaining comfortably secluded from the main road's traffic. The moment we pulled in, that ineffable sense of rightness—the nomad's intuition—confirmed we had found our place. With practiced eyes, we identified the most level position available and eased our bus into its temporary home.
From our elevated perch, the panoramic view stretched eastward across azure waters toward the magnificent granite peaks of Freycinet National Park. The distinctive profile of the Hazards—those rose-hued mountains that define Tasmania's eastern coastline—stood in perfect silhouette against the afternoon sky. As daylight faded, we settled into the comfortable rituals of stationary life—windows aligned to maximize the vista, chairs positioned to celebrate the view, the quiet hum of systems transitioning from movement to dwelling.
Morning delivered its masterpiece as the sun emerged from behind Freycinet's distant mountains. We watched, mugs of steaming coffee warming our hands, as golden light poured across the water, transforming ordinary waves into dancing flames of reflected brilliance. This daily ceremony—this oldest of earthly performances—never diminishes in its capacity to inspire wonder, particularly when witnessed from the perfect vantage of one's own home parked at the edge of beauty.
With our solar panels drinking deeply from Tasmania's autumn sunshine, we descended to the beach itself, feet tracing patterns on sand that constantly rewrites itself with each tide's passage. The solitude and space felt particularly precious after the beautiful intensity of family reunion—not a rejection of connection but rather its necessary counterpoint. Here, on this quiet strand with only seabirds for company, we rediscovered the particular peace that comes from being absolutely nowhere and perfectly present.
Later that day, we returned our home to its mobile configuration—the familiar choreography of securing items, retracting components, and preparing for movement now so ingrained it required barely conscious thought. With one last appreciative glance toward Freycinet's distant profile, we rejoined the coastal road, continuing our northward progression along Tasmania's eastern edge. Our farewell tour of this beloved island had truly begun, each stop now carrying the bittersweet awareness of finality, each sunrise counting down toward our eventual departure from these shores that had so thoroughly captured our hearts.En savoir plus
A Tapestry of Reunions and Farewells
2–28 mai 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 14 °C
Anth's journey though Hobart to the Bus's resting spot at Boomer Bay included a practical detour to Cambridge, where he acquired inexpensive Temu chairs to accommodate guests at our interior table—a small investment in hospitality that reflected our anticipation of future visitors
Our familiar sanctuary at Simon and Sue's property welcomed Anth like an old friend, the Bus settling into its cherished spot as if exhaling after a long journey. But this homecoming was merely a brief pause in a greater odyssey of the heart. The packing from Gordon was complete, and with just one night remaining before the morning flight, anticipation thrummed through the evening air.
Dawn arrived with nature's alarm clock – the neighbour's rooster piercing the pre-dawn darkness. Yet what initially seemed an unwelcome intrusion transformed into a gift. Anth threw off the warmth of his sleeping bag and ventured into the crisp Tasmanian morning, drawn by the promise of something spectacular. The shoreline beckoned, and there, spreading across the horizon like watercolours on canvas, the sunrise painted the sky in hues that photographs could barely capture. The cold bit at his fingers as he clicked the shutter, but the beauty warming his soul made every shiver worthwhile.
The journey northward followed that familiar choreography of modern travel—taxi to airport, aircraft to mainland, train toward destination, and finally private vehicle for the last stretch. Each transition bringing Anth closer to reunion with Sal, the geographical distance between us gradually collapsing until elimination.
We established temporary base at Sal's parents' welcoming home—affectionately known as Grannie and Grandad's place—our presence there creating a bridge between our current nomadic existence and the fixed-address life we had previously known. The anticipation of our children's imminent arrival charged these days with expectant energy.
Sophie arrived first, our beautiful daughter accompanied by her partner Shea, both radiating that particular glow of travelers returning from grand adventure. Sal and Grandad had collected them from the airport, their arrival at the house creating that particular electricity of imminent reunion. Sophie's familiar face now subtly transformed by experiences we had not witnessed, her eyes reflecting both the girl we had raised and the independent woman she had become. We sat together for hours, conversation flowing in currents both deep and shallow as she shared tales of Japanese culture, language challenges, workplace dynamics, and personal discoveries.
A week dissolved like sugar in rain before we found ourselves aboard the train to Gympie, the rhythmic clacking of wheels on tracks carrying us towards Anth's mum, Grammy, whose own embrace awaited. The countryside rolled past our windows like a moving painting, each mile bringing us closer to the next chapter of our reunion story.
The airport retrieval of Torrin felt like watching a long-held breath finally being released. Eighteen months had transformed our eldest son, Japan having etched its mysteries and wisdom into his eyes. When he emerged through those arrival gates, time seemed to fold upon itself—the boy who had left now a man seasoned by adventure and independence. The drive back to Gympie was filled with an almost sacred silence, punctuated by bursts of excited storytelling.
Mack and his partner Lachy's arrival completed our circle, and suddenly, miraculously, our family constellation was whole again. For the first time in over eighteen months, all our stars were aligned in the same sky. We spent every precious moment drinking in each other's presence, conversations flowing like honey, laughter bubbling up from the deepest wells of joy. When Anth's birthday arrived on the 22nd, it felt less like a personal celebration and more like a festival of gratitude for this impossible gift of togetherness.
The brief interlude when Anth and Torrin flew to Melbourne for screening opportunities felt like holding our breath. Torrin's coffers had run dry during his Japanese sojourn, and the prospect of replenishing his travel funds sparkled with possibility for his next grand adventure. Yet even in their temporary absence, the warmth of family reunion continued to glow in our hearts.
Our visit to Anth's dad at Coowinda carried the bittersweet weight of time's passage. Memory might be failing him like autumn leaves gradually releasing their hold, but love proved more persistent than time itself. When we surprised him in his room, his eyes lit with recognition—a moment of connection that transcended the fog of forgetting. These stolen moments of clarity felt like precious jewels, each one treasured beyond measure.
Then came that inevitable twilight moment when the nomadic call of the road began to sing its siren song again. The farewells to our children carried the particular ache that only travelling parents know—hearts simultaneously full from reunion and breaking from departure. As we embraced each of them, whispering hopes that perhaps one day they might join us on these endless roads, we felt the eternal tension between wanderlust and the magnetic pull of family.
Our return to Tasmania brought news that deflated our carefully constructed plans like air from a punctured balloon. Both Torrin and Anth's screenings had been unsuccessful, sending our future into delicious uncertainty once again. Sal's birthday celebrations, our dreamed-of New Zealand adventure, even our return journey to the mainland—all became fluid, malleable, subject to the whims of fortune and the beautiful unpredictability of nomadic life.
The final days at Boomer Bay felt like reading the last pages of a beloved chapter. Simon's generous hospitality had been a cornerstone of our Tasmanian experience, and our gratitude overflowed as we prepared for our final farewell. The open road beckoned with its familiar promise of adventure and uncertainty, and we felt our hearts already turning towards whatever horizons awaited.En savoir plus
Foreshore Solitude: Awaiting Reunion
28 avr.–2 mai 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 12 °C
The gradual transition from wilderness to civilization always carried a particular sensory progression—dirt roads yielding to tarmac, forest canopies giving way to street lights, birdsong gradually overpowered by the mechanical symphony of human commerce. As we navigated into Hobart's familiar streets, the clock imposed its uncompromising authority over our movements. With Sal's flight looming on the immediate horizon, we sought brief sanctuary in a café whose proximity to the airport meant we could spend longer on this farewell ritual.
"Just a few days this time," Sal observed, her fingers wrapped around the warming vessel. Unlike our previous separations measured in weeks, this brief interlude would barely qualify as absence—a mere handful of sunrises and sunsets before Anth would follow her northward. Queensland awaited us both, not merely as destination but as gathering point for family reunion, our adult children soon to return from their Japanese working holiday adventures.
The airport farewell carried none of the melancholy weight of previous separations. Instead, an almost holiday-like anticipation coloured our embrace—this parting represented not conclusion but prelude to family reconstruction. As Sal disappeared through security, Anth returned to our bus—now temporarily his alone—with plans already crystallising. Rather than lingering in Hobart's urban embrace, the southern wilderness beckoned once more.
The Gordon foreshore—that perfect waterside sanctuary we had discovered during previous journeys—called with particular resonance. Sixty minutes of driving unwound along roads now familiar after twelve months of Tasmanian exploration. The landscape scrolled past the windows like beloved pages of a well-read novel, each vista triggering cascading memories of previous passages.
Arrival at the foreshore brought confirmation that some things remain wonderfully constant in an ever-changing world. The precise spot where we had previously established our temporary home—that perfect position where water lapped mere metres from our wheels—remained unoccupied, as if patiently awaiting Anth's return.
The stillness of solitude settled over the bus as evening approached—not the uncomfortable silence of loneliness but the contemplative quiet of temporary solitude. After months of continuous companionship, these brief intervals of singular existence offered their own peculiar pleasure. Decisions required no consultation, movement demanded no coordination, thoughts could remain unvoiced yet complete. From the bus windows, the water's surface transformed with fading light, reflecting the gradual transformation of day into dusk, then dusk into darkness pricked by distant lights from across the channel.
Morning arrived with gentle insistence, sunlight filtering through curtains not fully closed. The practical matter of sustenance required attention—food supplies having dwindled during our highland sojourn at Penstock. Rather than navigating busy supermarket aisles, Anth embraced modern convenience, fingers tapping out a digital grocery order to be delivered to this remote waterside location. The marvel of technology connecting wilderness dwelling with urban convenience never ceased to impress—our nomadic ancestors could scarcely have imagined summoning provisions to forest edge with mere electronic impulses.
Harry—the delivery driver with characteristic Tasmanian friendliness—arrived with groceries and conversation in equal measure.
"You've found yourself a great spot here," he observed, passing grocery bags through the door. What might have been transactional efficiency transformed into unhurried conversation as Harry shared local knowledge accumulated across decades. These brief but genuine connections with place-keepers—those who maintained both physical and narrative landscapes—had become one of the most cherished aspects of our nomadic existence.
The subsequent days unfolded beneath skies performing their autumnal repertoire—leaden clouds occasionally parting to allow golden sunlight to transform the water's surface from slate to sapphire. Then clouds would reassemble, sometimes delivering gentle rain that pattered against the metal roof with soothing percussion. This meteorological variety had become familiar during our Tasmanian sojourn—the island's weather patterns shifting with such frequency that locals often referenced "four seasons in one day" without hyperbole.
Between weather systems, Anth ventured forth along the foreshore, feet tracing paths we had explored together in previous visits. The geocaching application whispered electronic encouragement, guiding him toward a particular cache that had eluded discovery during prior attempts. The satisfaction of finally locating this cleverly hidden container—tucked beneath a distinctive rock formation visible only at certain tide levels—brought that particular pleasure of completion, another coordinate conquered in this ongoing treasure hunt that had added such delightful dimension to our travels.
As the appointed departure approached, Anth performed the now-familiar ritual of securing our home for temporary abandonment—systems checked, perishables minimised, valuables discreetly stored. This bus—our constant companion through over twelve extraordinary Tasmanian months—would wait patiently for our return, though this time our absence would be measured in weeks rather than days, our Queensland family reunion requiring extended mainland presence before our final ferry departure from the island.
The drive towards Hobart carried none of the melancholy of farewell, instead brimming with anticipation of imminent reunion. As Tasmania's familiar landscapes scrolled past one last time, Anth's thoughts stretched northward—to Sal awaiting his arrival, to adult children concluding their Japan adventures, to the precious convergence of family that would briefly reconstruct our pre-nomadic constellation before we continued our wheeled existence on mainland shores. This journey represented not conclusion but transition—another chapter in our continuing story of movement, connection, and discovery.En savoir plus
Dusty Detours and Chance Connections
27–28 avr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 16 °C
The Highland Highway beckoned us southward once more, but our yearning for novelty, that ever-present companion of the nomadic soul, guided us toward uncharted territory. Anth had identified an unsealed road winding down from Lake Sorell, promising both unexplored landscape and the thrill of undiscovered geocaches. Since time stood as our willing accomplice rather than demanding taskmaster, we veered onto this dusty alternative, our bus responding to the textured terrain with familiar mechanical conversation beneath us.
The detour carried us through a corner of Tasmania we had somehow missed despite our year-long exploration, a stunning oversight now gloriously remedied. Eucalyptus forest gave way to rolling pastureland, then back to pockets of native vegetation, each transition revealing another facet of the island's complex ecological mosaic. Anth's occasional declarations of "There should be one nearby" punctuated our journey, the bus easing to a halt as he ventured forth to uncover those hidden treasures that had become such an integral subplot in our travelling narrative. Each successful discovery brought that particular satisfaction of completion, another coordinate conquered, another minor mystery solved.
Eventually the rutted path delivered us to Bothwell, a township whose colonial architecture spoke eloquently of Tasmania's European genesis. A modest café with windows fogged from freshly brewed coffee invited us in from the autumn chill. Outside, a magnificent 1965 Ford Mustang commanded attention, its gleaming paintwork and immaculate chrome reflecting both sunshine and bygone automotive excellence. On a chair, we discovered its owner similarly enjoying morning refreshment, the quiet pride in his occasional glance toward his mechanical companion quite evident. Our coffees arrived with the unhurried pace that characterises rural service, allowing us time to absorb the particular atmosphere that exists only in country establishments where time flows according to different rules than urban counterparts.
Departing Bothwell with caffeine-renewed spirits, we continued our southward trajectory. The plan crystallised around returning to Kempton, that free camp with generous electrical provision we had sampled days earlier. Our power reserves, depleted by wilderness dwelling at Penstock, could benefit from municipal generosity before we potentially ventured on to Chauncy Vale. This formulaic strategy dissolved upon arrival, however, as Kempton's modest camping area had transformed from near-emptiness to vibrant community, every designated space claimed by fellow travellers.
One unoccupied spot bore the universal signal of temporary absence, chairs and table arranged to indicate imminent return rather than availability. Adjacent to this reservation stood a well-appointed Sprinter van, its occupants lounging comfortably in the autumn sunshine. Approaching with nomadic diplomacy, we explained our simple desire for electrical connection rather than overnight accommodation. Belinda and Coz, the van's Western Australian owners, responded with immediate generosity, explaining that the reserved space belonged to their travelling companions who would not object to our temporary power requisition.
"Stay as long as you need," Belinda offered with the easy camaraderie that exists between road people. "They won't be back for hours yet."
As our batteries drank deeply from the available outlet, conversation flowed with equivalent ease. Their journey, that classic Australian pilgrimage known simply as "the big lap," had begun in Western Australia months earlier. We exchanged tales of favourite locations, challenging roads, mechanical mishaps and serendipitous discoveries, each anecdote strengthening the invisible thread that connects those who have chosen wheels as home. Their perspective on their journey from the West provided fresh insight, while our Tasmanian expertise offered valuable intelligence for their island exploration.
As afternoon mellowed toward evening and our conversation deepened, we reassessed our original intention to proceed to Chauncy Vale. If Kempton, typically quiet and overlooked, had swelled to capacity, what might await at more popular destinations during this school holiday period? The wisdom of remaining in our current, now-comfortable situation became increasingly apparent. When Belinda and Coz's companions returned and expressed similar welcoming attitude, our decision crystallised. We would remain within this temporary community rather than seeking uncertain solitude elsewhere.
The contrast with Penstock's magnificent isolation could not have been more pronounced, from wilderness solitude to social congregation in a single day's journey. Yet this juxtaposition represented the beautiful duality of our chosen lifestyle: the liberty to embrace either extreme as circumstance and inclination dictated. With our food supplies reaching critical levels, we surrendered to the limited options of rural Sunday commerce, the local service station providing basic sustenance rather than culinary delight. The simplicity of takeaway eaten within our bus reminded us that not every meal requires celebration. Sometimes food serves merely as necessary fuel between more memorable experiences.
Dawn arrived with the subtle shift in light that penetrates even the most efficient window coverings. We emerged to find the campground already stirring, fellow travellers preparing for their own days of discovery. Our farewell to Belinda and Coz carried the particular poignancy of nomadic connections, friendships formed intensely yet briefly, contact details exchanged with genuine intentions of future reconnection when our western migration eventually brought us to their home territory. These promises, uttered with sincerity despite uncertain timelines, represented the particular social fabric of life on wheels. Relationships woven across vast distances, maintained through digital communication, occasionally reinforced through serendipitous physical reconnection.
With our goodbyes completed and our home secured for movement, we pointed our wheels toward Hobart for the final time. Sal's impending flight hung between us, not quite melancholy but carrying the awareness of imminent separation. As the highway unwound beneath us, conversation turned naturally toward logistics and timing, the practical considerations that would carry us through the coming transition. Tasmania's landscape, now deeply familiar after twelve months of exploration, scrolled past our windows like a beloved film we had watched countless times yet still discovered new details with each viewing. This journey represented not merely movement toward an airport but the beginning of our farewell to an island that had transformed from destination to sanctuary over the course of a remarkable year.En savoir plus
The 6th Sojourn: Penstocks Final Chapter
16–27 avr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 12 °C
Dawn painted Campbell Town in gentle watercolours as we prepared for departure, our brief overnight respite concluding with the familiar ritual of securing the bus interior for travel. The morning air carried that distinctive Tasmanian crispness that had become so familiar over our year-long island sojourn. With a swift but thorough check of our surroundings, we merged back onto the highway, southbound once more toward Hobart's metropolitan embrace.
The journey unwound before us like a well-read narrative, each landmark triggering memories of previous passages along this arterial corridor. The kilometres dissolved beneath our wheels until the gradual densification of buildings announced our approach to the capital. Navigating toward the shopping centre where Sal's appointment awaited, we were immediately struck by the car park's congested chaos—vehicles circling like mechanical predators seeking elusive prey. Fortune smiled upon us, however, as a space materialised just as we approached, our substantial bus claiming territory amongst conventional vehicles.
"I won't be long," Sal promised as she departed, leaving Anth to monitor our temporary urban anchorage. Time stretched languorously in her absence, the interior of our mobile sanctuary feeling simultaneously familiar yet subtly altered when occupied by just one of us. Upon her return, we succumbed to the siren call of Banjo's—that quintessentially Tasmanian establishment whose raspberry pies had achieved legendary status in our personal culinary mythology. The sweet-tart filling cradled within perfect pastry represented small indulgences that punctuated our otherwise frugal existence.
Our return to the bus delivered an unexpected milestone in our nomadic chronicle—an official parking ticket fluttered beneath our wiper blade like an unwelcome autumn leaf. Fifty dollars added to our pie and coffee consumption provoked not frustration but rather philosophical amusement. "Well," Anth observed with characteristic optimism, "it took us over a year of full-time travel to receive our first parking fine—I'd say that's rather impressive." We both agreed the deliciousness of our Banjo's feast justified this unexpected surcharge.
With the immediate future beckoning, we consulted our digital oracle—maps unfurling across the screen as we contemplated appropriate sanctuary for the coming fortnight before Sal's Queensland flight. The imminent convergence of Easter celebrations and school holidays cast shadows across our planning, promising crowded campgrounds and diminished tranquility. After careful deliberation, our eyes were simultaneously drawn to Penstock Lagoon—that magical highland waterscape we had visited five times previously, each experience deepening our attachment to its particular magic.
Decision crystallised, we pivoted northward once more, retracing our recent journey with the anticipation that accompanies return to beloved territory. Along the way, curiosity directed us toward Kempton's free camp—a location we had glimpsed repeatedly from the highway yet never explored directly. The modest camping area, though situated uncomfortably close to the highway's constant percussion and embedded within the town's modest grid, offered one compelling enticement: electrical outlets freely available for traveller use.
This unexpected bounty triggered practical recalculation—our bus's power reserves had been gradually diminishing, and the opportunity for complete replenishment seemed providential. As our batteries drank deeply from municipal generosity, we ventured into Kempton proper, pursuing a geocaching adventure that promised historical revelation. The town's colonial architecture told silent stories of Tasmania's complex past, each building a physical chapter in the island's ongoing narrative.
Our wanderings brought us to a heritage structure adorned with climbing roses whose fragrance halted us mid-stride. As we bent to appreciate this sensory offering, an elderly gentleman approached with unhurried gait, a spotted dog trotting faithfully alongside. "That's Dottie," he announced by way of introduction, gesturing toward his canine companion. Conversation unfurled with the unhurried pace that characterises rural encounters—his knowledge of local horticulture intertwining with personal anecdotes about Kempton's evolution across decades. These unexpected connections with place-keepers—those who maintain both physical gardens and community memories—had become precious touchstones in our travelling life.
With our power reserves rejuvenated, we returned to the highway, urban density gradually receding as we ascended toward Tasmania's central plateau. The Highland Highway carried us upward through transforming ecosystems, each altitude gain revealing subtle shifts in vegetation and landscape character. Excitement built within us as familiar waypoints appeared—this journey had become something of a pilgrimage, each visit to Penstock deepening our connection to its particular wilderness.
Our steady progress was interrupted by the digital summons of Sal's online tutorial schedule. Without breaking stride, she transitioned to the bus's rear compartment, technology bridging geographical distance through Starlink's orbital constellation. This remarkable capacity—to participate in formal education while traversing remote highlands—represented one of modern nomadism's most liberating aspects. Anth continued our journey as Sal's voice mingled with her distant classmates', her academic and wilderness lives temporarily occupying parallel dimensions.
Daylight gradually surrendered to dusk, bringing with it the emergence of Tasmania's nocturnal citizens. This transition provided perfect opportunity for Anth to evaluate our newly installed thermal camera—that technological enhancement acquired during our separation. The device proved immediately valuable, revealing small wallabies completely invisible to conventional headlights, their heat signatures glowing distinctly against the cooled landscape. This addition to our travelling arsenal represented more than mere gadgetry; it promised safer passage through wildlife-rich territories, particularly as winter's early darkness approached.
Ladies Walk Campground eventually welcomed us with familiar embrace, our headlights illuminating the track around Penstock Lagoon until we reached our preferred position. Despite expecting holiday crowds, the area hosted just one other camping setup—a solitary witness to the tranquility we had hoped to find. We settled into our spot with the practised efficiency that comes from repeated homecoming, the darkness beyond our windows holding the promise of beloved landscape to be rediscovered in morning light.
Dawn revealed Penstock's highland splendour—misty waters reflecting eucalyptus sentinels, the particular quality of light that had drawn us back repeatedly to this elevated sanctuary. Anth undertook a reconnaissance mission, exploring the campground's further reaches to discover it remained largely uninhabited despite the holiday period. This unexpected solitude presented opportunity for positional optimisation, and we relocated our bus to a previously unexperienced site, claiming fresh perspective on our favourite landscape.
With settlement completed, we surrendered to the wilderness rhythm that represented our preferred existence. Daily wood collection became meditative practice—searching fallen branches of appropriate dimension, Anth processing them with the handcrafted bucksaw whose simple efficiency had proven itself across countless campsites. The resulting timber fed our Pomoly hot tent stove, the same apparatus we had inaugurated in this very location nearly twelve months prior. The stove's elegant simplicity—providing smoke-free warmth while simultaneously offering cooking surface—represented perfection in functional design for our nomadic requirements.
Our culinary existence mirrored the adaptability of our nomadic life—a harmonious blend of modern convenience and timeless tradition. Inside the bus, our compact kitchen housed the technological marvels of induction cooking and air-frying, allowing sophisticated meal preparation regardless of our remote location. Yet it was the outdoor cooking that truly elevated our wilderness experience, connecting us to ancient human rhythms. The Pomoly stove's flat top transformed into a versatile cooking surface where cast iron skillets sizzled with morning breakfasts or evening meals, the same flames that warmed our bodies simultaneously nourishing them. Our collection of firebox stoves—those clever contraptions designed for efficient combustion—provided yet another dimension, their glowing charcoal or crackling wood imparting distinctive smokiness to our creations. Every morning began with the comforting ritual of coffee preparation, the percolator bubbling away with promise as dawn light filtered through eucalyptus branches. This diversity of cooking methods became not merely practical but deeply satisfying—each meal a small celebration of self-sufficiency in this highland sanctuary.
Tasmania's autumn weather performed its characteristic symphony—clouds gathering and dispersing across cerulean canvas, occasional raindrops pattering against our metal roof, morning fog drifting ethereally across the lagoon's mirrored surface. This meteorological variety enhanced rather than diminished our experience, each atmospheric shift revealing new dimension to the landscape's character.
We embraced outdoor existence with wholehearted commitment—mornings beginning with Anth's flexibility routine performed on a groundsheet beneath eucalyptus canopy, afternoons devoted to resistance training with bands and gymnastics rings secured to sturdy branches. The fireside became our evening focal point, flames dancing hypnotically as we reflected on our Tasmanian sojourn—nearly complete after eighteen transformative months.
The eucalypt forest surrounding Penstock had become emblematic of our entire Tasmanian experience—its resilient beauty, ancient presence, and quiet dignity representing what we had come to treasure about this island. Unlike mainland forests we had known, this highland woodland possessed distinctive character—trees spaced with natural precision, undergrowth minimal yet diverse, light filtering through canopy with particular luminosity that seemed exclusive to Tasmania's central plateau.
As our days at Penstock dwindled, practicalities of transition demanded attention. Our adult children's imminent return from Japanese working holidays necessitated coordination across multiple schedules. We secured flights that would reunite our family constellation in Queensland—Sal departing first to fulfil rescheduled university workshops previously disrupted by Cyclone Alfred. The unfortunate alignment with school holiday conclusion inflated her fare considerably, a financial reality we accepted with resignation. Anth would follow days later when standard pricing resumed, a pragmatic separation to minimise travel expenses.
After 11 nights immersed in highland serenity, the moment arrived to bid farewell to Penstock—not merely concluding this particular stay but marking the final chapter of our extended love affair with this location. As we secured the bus interior for departure, emotion coloured our efficiency. This place had witnessed our seasonal transitions, hosted our experiments in wilderness comfort, and provided sanctuary when urban existence became overwhelming. Now, with mainland return looming barely two weeks distant, this departure carried additional weight—the conclusion of not just a visit but an era.
Steering our home down the familiar track toward the highway, we remained mostly silent, each privately cataloguing memories and impressions gathered across multiple visits to this highland haven. The significance hung unspoken between us—Penstock had become more than geographic location; it represented something essential about our Tasmanian experience, something we would carry within us long after the ferry delivered us back to mainland shores. Now, Hobart awaited once more, Sal's flight marking the beginning of our gradual farewell to this island that had transformed from destination to sanctuary over twelve extraordinary months.En savoir plus
VoyageurJust in the Garage (the boot). The chimney pieces all stack inside of it for storage and it has it's own case.
When Gold Buses Turn Heads
15–16 avr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 15 °C
As our wheels crunched the gravel marking our departure from Garden Island's tranquility, technology bridged the distance between wandering souls. A message illuminated Anth's phone—Mark and Stacey, fellow nomads we had befriended at Ben Lomond over a year prior, had noticed our location on Find Penguins, that digital chronicle of our meandering existence. Their message suggested our paths might converge, though our reply indicated we were southbound while they traveled north, our trajectories seemingly destined to pass without intersection.
Fate, however, had orchestrated a more delightful choreography than we anticipated. As we proceeded south, our distinctive gold bus caught their attention from the opposing lane—a mobile beacon of recognition amidst anonymous traffic. With the spontaneous decision-making that characterises true travelers, they executed a perfect about-face, following our unmistakable silhouette until we pulled into Beaconsfield for our morning repast. Their appearance as we settled at an indoor café table seemed almost magical—materialising from the mundane backdrop of ordinary morning commerce to create an extraordinary moment of connection.
Despite having already broken their fast, they joined our table with the easy camaraderie that exists between those who understand the rarity of such intersections in nomadic lives. Conversation flowed with remarkable ease considering the elapsed time since our last encounter, words tumbling forth as we exchanged compressed narratives of our separate journeys. Between sips of coffee and bites of breakfast, they revealed a significant inflection point in their own story—not merely contemplating the conclusion of their Tasmanian chapter but considering the closure of their entire Australian odyssey. England, their homeland, exerted its gravitational pull across hemispheres, calling them back to familiar shores.
This revelation lent additional poignancy to our chance reunion. We parted with earnest promises to engineer one final meeting before continental separation became reality, though experience had taught us that nomadic intentions, however sincere, remain perpetually subject to revision by circumstance and opportunity. Their vehicle disappeared around a bend, leaving us contemplating how these brief but meaningful connections formed an essential thread in the tapestry of our wandering existence.
The Batman Bridge, that elegant arc spanning the Tamar River, delivered us onto the eastern bank as we continued our journey toward Launceston. The familiar skyline emerged gradually on the horizon, urban density replacing pastoral expanses as we navigated toward Sal's appointment. While she surrendered to the particular pleasure of professional hair care—that ritual of self-maintenance that provided both physical refreshment and psychological uplift—Anth attended to the practical necessities of provisioning. The synchronicity of these parallel tasks represented the efficient harmony we had developed over months of mobile living.
With Launceston's errands complete and our bus replenished with fresh supplies, an unanticipated development redirected our course. Hobart suddenly beckoned with unexpected urgency, necessitating another journey along Tasmania's central arterial highway. As the landscape unfurled alongside our windows, Anth provided commentary on landmarks with newfound significance—"There's where I found that interesting cache with the historical plaque" or "That rest area held a particularly challenging multi-stage puzzle"—each location now layered with personal mythology from his solitary northward journey weeks earlier. These shared observations transformed what might have been routine transit into a narrative excursion, a guided tour through a geography now enriched by individual experience.
As afternoon light lengthened into golden evening, we made the practical decision to interrupt our southward progress. Campbell Town's free camp appeared on our right—a popular overnight haven already hosting a scattered community of travellers. Rather than pushing onward to reach Hobart by nightfall, we eased our bus into an available space, surrendering to the wisdom of measured progress over hurried completion. The busy campground hummed with the gentle activity of fellow nomads establishing evening routines—cooking aromas mingling on the breeze, murmured conversations creating a subtle soundtrack to the falling dusk.
We settled into our own familiar evening pattern within our mobile sanctuary, the day's unexpected reunion with Mark and Stacey providing ample material for reflection. Their impending return to England reminded us of the inherently temporary nature of all journeys—how even the most extended adventures eventually describe a circle, sometimes returning travellers to their starting point enriched by experiences gathered along the way. As darkness enveloped the Campbell Town campground, we contemplated our own journey's eventual arc, knowing that while Tasmania would soon recede in our mirrors, the island had permanently inscribed itself upon our shared consciousness.En savoir plus
The Rhythm of Reunion
11–15 avr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 18 °C
The pale light of dawn had barely begun to filter through our curtains when Terry's preparations for departure roused us from slumber. After reaching the National Park's 28-day limit, his time at Springlawn had come to its prescribed conclusion. We emerged from our bus to bid him farewell, the morning air carrying that distinctive Tasmanian crispness that had become so familiar during our year-long sojourn on this island. Our goodbyes carried the weight of impending finality, for with our mainland ferry booked for less than two months ahead, we would encounter Terry only once more before our extended separation. Years would pass on the mainland before our nomadic paths might converge again, lending poignancy to this casual parting beneath the eucalyptus canopy.
The campground assumed a different character in Terry's absence, as if his departure had subtly altered its atmospheric composition. We lingered a few hours longer, savouring our morning rituals of coffee and quiet conversation before gently awakening our bus from its extended rest. The familiar mechanical song of our home coming to life after weeks of dormancy felt like reunion with an old friend. Each click, hum, and vibration a welcome reminder of the freedom that awaited us.
We wound our way toward the park exit, pausing at the designated waste station. As Anth disposed of our accumulated rubbish, fate delivered another serendipitous connection. A fellow Coaster owner named BJ appeared beside our bus, his eyes lighting with recognition at our vehicle's silhouette. A photographer who had, like us, exchanged the Sunshine Coast's perpetual summer for the liberty of wheels, he approached with the easy camaraderie that exists between those who have chosen similar paths. Our conversation unfolded without urgency, discovering shared acquaintances and parallel experiences that spanned the continental divide. These chance encounters with kindred nomads always reinforced our sense of belonging to an unseen community, dispersed yet connected by common choices and values.
With farewells exchanged and directions shared, we continued onward toward Garden Island, a free camp nestled in the Tamar River's estuarine embrace. The route unwound before us like a ribbon of possibility, each curve revealing another facet of Tasmania's northern landscape. We traversed the countryside in companionable silence, occasionally exchanging observations about landmarks or wildlife, the simple pleasure of shared experience having been heightened by our recent separation.
Garden Island revealed itself gradually, first the expansive campsite, then the shimmering waters beyond. Our arrival coincided with recognition of a massive expedition vehicle parked majestically along the shoreline. The distinctive profile belonged to the same couple we had encountered at Lake Pedder, their transcontinental wanderings having traced a path parallel to our own. Brief greetings were exchanged, that particular shorthand of travellers who understand the value of both connection and space, before we sought our own perfect position along the water's edge.
The campsite's vastness became immediately apparent as we settled into our chosen spot. With only a handful of other campers scattered across the generous expanse, the sense of seclusion was magnificent despite not being truly alone. Our windows framed the Tamar's tidal ballet, water advancing and retreating in ancient rhythm against the shoreline. Each evening, as the sun began its westward descent, we witnessed nature's most reliable yet ever-changing spectacle. Sunset transforming water into molten gold, clouds into sculptural masterpieces limned with fire. We developed a ritual of pausing whatever occupied us to stand together at the water's edge, witnessing this daily miracle with the reverence it deserved.
For Sal, these peaceful days represented the final academic push, assignments that needed completion before her trimester concluded. We established a harmonious rhythm wherein she immersed herself in scholarly pursuit during daylight hours while Anth attended to various maintenance tasks or explored our immediate surroundings. The moment her final assignment received its digital submission, a visible transformation occurred. Tension melting from her shoulders, a smile of accomplishment illuminating her features. That evening we celebrated with a modest toast to academic perseverance, the weight of obligation temporarily lifted from our shared existence.
With academic pressures abated, we reclaimed those small domestic pleasures that separation had interrupted. Our nightly ritual of films and television series viewed from the intimate comfort of our bed resumed, a simple indulgence that nonetheless represented the precious normality of our life together. These were the moments that defined our happiness, not grand adventures or spectacular vistas, but the quiet contentment of companionship within our modest rolling home.
One gloriously clear morning, we unrolled our ground mat on the grassy expanse beside our bus, the Tamar providing spectacular backdrop to our exercise endeavours. Anth demonstrated the stretching routine he had adopted during his clinical trial, movements designed to counter the physical stagnation that sometimes accompanied our travels. The gentle resistance of muscles awakening, the awareness of breath synchronising with movement, the sun warming our skin as we moved through each sequence. These sensations reminded us of our corporeal existence, so often overlooked in favour of mental and emotional experience. We acknowledged this should become regular practice alongside our resistance band training, another building block in our sustainable nomadic existence.
The days at Garden Island passed with that curious temporal fluidity that characterises places of deep contentment, simultaneously fleeting yet somehow expansive. All too soon, the calendar reminded us of Sal's impending hair appointment in Launceston, that recurring tether to civilisation that punctuated our wilderness sojourns. As we prepared for departure, securing loose items and readying our home for movement once more, we exchanged glances of shared understanding. These brief tastes of settled existence always enhanced rather than diminished our appreciation for mobility. The road beckoned once again, and we would answer its call with the particular joy of those who have made movement their meditation.En savoir plus
Separated Journeys, Convergent Paths
19 mars–11 avr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 20 °C
The decision to entrust our wheeled sanctuary to Terry during our separate mainland sojourns had been made with careful consideration. He had established his temporary dwelling at Springlawn campground within Narawntapu National Park—the only site within this protected wilderness we had yet to experience firsthand. Our nomadic home would rest in capable hands while we fulfilled the obligations that sustained our wandering existence.
With water tanks freshly replenished at Evandale, Anth guided our faithful conveyance northward along the sinuous path of the Tamar River. The landscape unfurled before him like a well-loved manuscript—familiar yet always revealing new details upon each reading. The day's itinerary balanced necessity with pleasure: fuel and laundry to attend to, certainly, but also the quiet thrill of geocaching discoveries awaiting along the way.
The river's serpentine course led eventually to Legana, where diesel pumps replenished our mechanical companion's thirsty tanks. With this practical matter addressed, Anth veered westward, the bus responding to his touch like a well-trained steed. Not far along this new trajectory, he halted for another geocaching pursuit—that digital treasure hunt that had so often revealed hidden gems within Tasmania's varied landscape.
This particular cache exemplified precisely why this hobby had become such a valued companion to our travels. Without its guidance, we would have remained oblivious to the unmarked refuge for white wallabies nestled alongside the road—a sanctuary we had unwittingly passed months earlier, its existence veiled behind unremarkable foliage. These serendipitous discoveries enriched our nomadic tapestry, each one a reminder that even familiar paths concealed untold wonders.
Several kilometres later, realisation struck with uncomfortable clarity—the laundry! Legana's facilities had slipped from memory, a crucial oversight considering the imminent clinical trial awaiting Anth. While our relaxed approach to cleanliness suited life on the road perfectly well, presenting oneself to fellow research participants with garments bearing the aromatic signature of extended travel seemed somewhat inconsiderate. With pragmatic efficiency, Anth reversed course, returning to complete this domestic necessity before resuming his northward journey.
The distinctive silhouette of Terry's caravan eventually appeared as our bus rolled into Springlawn. He emerged with that characteristic smile—warm and genuine—that had first greeted us over twelve months ago during our inaugural Tasmanian encampment. This marked only our third encounter since that initial meeting, yet there existed between us the comfortable camaraderie of those who share an understanding of life beyond conventional boundaries.
Our brief reunion presented opportunity for continued enhancement of our mobile sanctuary. The newly acquired thermal camera found its elevated position on the roof—a technological guardian designed to reveal wildlife during those unavoidable nocturnal drives that winter would soon multiply. Terry observed this installation with evident fascination, the gleam in his eyes suggesting calculations regarding similar equipment for his own nomadic existence.
While mechanical improvements progressed, so too did aesthetic restoration. The recently acquired turbo fan proved its worth as Anth meticulously addressed accumulated dust that had infiltrated our pristine white interior. Window seals received particular attention, those critical barriers between wilderness and comfort. The under-bed garage—that Tetris-like puzzle of storage that seemed to require monthly reconfiguration—underwent yet another optimisation, though Anth acknowledged it would eventually need the same comprehensive redesign he had recently bestowed upon the cab storage.
When the appointed hour for departure arrived, Terry's generosity manifested in the hour-long drive to Launceston Airport. Our bus—now gleaming, reorganised and equipped with enhanced vision—stood sentinel in his care as Anth again departed Tasmanian shores, bound for Adelaide and the clinical trial that would replenish our travel funds.
The subsequent weeks unfolded in parallel separation—Anth immersed in medical research while Sal pursued academic knowledge at university. These temporary divergences from our chosen path represented necessary sacrifices, the price we willingly paid to sustain our nomadic freedom. Yet beneath the surface of these practical pursuits ran the constant undercurrent of longing—for each other, for the peculiar liberty of our home on wheels, for the road unfurling endlessly before us.
As our respective mainland obligations concluded and return journeys commenced, fate wove an unexpected synchronicity. Our separate flight paths from different corners of the continent converged upon Melbourne, aligning for the final leg to Launceston. Anth arrived first, his heart quickening with anticipated reunion as he monitored Sal's incoming flight from Brisbane. The precarious timing—her arrival scheduled mere minutes before their connecting departure—added electric tension to the moment.
Settled into his seat aboard the waiting aircraft, Anth's attention remained fixed on the entrance, counting diminishing seconds until, finally, her familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway. His eyes illuminated with recognition and relief as she navigated the narrow aisle toward him. A month of separation dissolved in that singular moment—her presence both balm and celebration after weeks of absence.
The brief flight to Launceston vanished in a flurry of animated conversation, laughter cascading between us like music too long unplayed. Our hands found each other with magnetic inevitability, physical connection reinforcing emotional reunion. Words tumbled forth, experiences shared, questions asked and answered—the gaps in our separate narratives eagerly filled as Tasmania's coastline emerged through scattered clouds below.
At Launceston Airport, Terry awaited with characteristic reliability, ready to return us to our patiently waiting home. As we loaded our modest luggage into his vehicle, the conversation flowed with renewed energy—three nomadic souls momentarily convergent before our wheels would once again trace separate patterns across this island that had become our temporary canvas. Ahead lay reunion with our bus, that constant companion in our wandering existence, and beyond that, the endless possibilities of the open road that had become our chosen destiny.En savoir plus
Six Hours for Ninety Minutes
16–19 mars 2025, Australie ⋅ ⛅ 14 °C
The morning presented a cartographer's choice—two paths beckoning northward, each with its own particular promise. Anth studied the digital map, weighing options with the careful consideration of a solitary traveller for whom time had become both abundant and precious. The first route would retrace familiar backcountry roads, scenic certainly but already yielding their hidden geocaching treasures during his previous southward journey. The second option—the Midland Highway connecting Hobart to Launceston—represented the well-worn arterial spine of Tasmania, a path we had traversed numerous times in our nomadic existence but always with the single-minded purpose of reaching predetermined destinations.
Today, however, with solitude as companion and time as currency, the highway revealed itself in a different light: a string of undiscovered geocaching pearls awaiting collection. The decision crystallised with quiet certainty—the allure of unmapped discoveries overpowering the charm of familiar landscapes. Before surrendering completely to the highway's structured embrace, Anth allowed himself several preparatory detours, the bus winding along narrow farming lanes as he claimed a handful of caches that served as appetisers for the day's treasure hunting feast.
The Midland Highway eventually received our bus with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. Unlike our previous journeys together when this road represented merely a conduit between destinations, today it transformed into the destination itself. With geocaching coordinates loaded into the navigation system, Anth established a new rhythm to travel—a delightful staccato of driving punctuated by frequent stops, each one an invitation to discover something previously hidden from our collective awareness.
The historic town of Oatlands emerged on the horizon, its Georgian architecture standing in sandstone defiance of modernity's relentless march. Where previously we had merely glanced through windows while passing, today Anth wandered its streets with purposeful curiosity, following digital breadcrumbs to tucked-away corners and overlooked historical markers. Similarly, the township of Ross—that perfect colonial postcard we had admired but never properly explored—revealed deeper layers of its character, including the forgotten quarry where skilled hands had hewn the very sandstone blocks that gave the settlement its distinctive golden hue.
Every few kilometres presented fresh opportunity, the bus pulling onto gravel shoulders or into deserted parking areas as Anth pursued the next coordinate. Tasmania's convict heritage—so often referenced yet rarely experienced in depth—revealed itself through crumbling ruins and weathered structures that punctuated the landscape like mnemonic devices, each one encoding stories of hardship, discipline and colonial ambition. These sites, bypassed during our efficient journeys together, now offered their historical whispers to the solitary explorer.
What should have been a straightforward journey of one hour and forty minutes transformed into a magnificent odyssey spanning nearly six hours. The sun had begun its westward descent when our bus finally rolled into the familiar embrace of Honeysuckle Banks, that reliable sanctuary on Launceston's edge that had sheltered us during previous transitions. Unlike our previous visits, the free campsite bustled with fellow travellers, a testament to autumn's gentle appeal. Nevertheless, that particular spot which had somehow always awaited our arrival remained vacant—a small cosmic kindness that felt like geographical recognition of our returning presence.
Morning brought purpose as Anth crossed the bridge into Evandale village, its preserved colonial atmosphere always transporting visitors to a gentler era. The Post Office—that stalwart institution housing surprising efficiency within its historic walls—yielded a small but significant parcel: a high-speed turbo fan that promised to mitigate the perpetual dust that infiltrated our home whenever we ventured along Tasmania's abundant dirt roads. This modest acquisition represented another incremental improvement to our nomadic existence, another small refinement of comfort earned through experience.
The final components for the cab shelving project awaited at Bunnings, that cathedral of DIY possibility that has become a recurring character in our mobile renovation story. With materials secured, Anth transformed the mundane asphalt of the car park into an impromptu workshop, measuring and fitting the final pieces that would complete this small architectural marvel within our nomadic dwelling. The satisfaction of creation—of fashioning order from material and concept—provided a quiet counterpoint to Sal's absence, a tangible accomplishment to share upon reunion. With the shelves completed, our bus returned to Honeysuckle Banks, now improved in both function and form.
Dawn's early darkness blanketed the landscape as Anth prepared for his Melbourne flight. The initial ambition to run the five kilometres to the airport surrendered to pragmatism in the pre-dawn blackness, an Uber summoned instead to navigate the sleeping streets. This trip represented not just geographical movement but financial sustenance—the clinical trial's conclusion promising the lifeblood currency that would fuel our continued wanderings for months to come. Beyond immediate needs, these funds would contribute toward our planned New Zealand adventure, that special celebration of Sal's birthday we had been anticipating since conception.
The Melbourne interlude passed without incident, its business efficiently concluded before our bus's guardian returned to Launceston's airport that same afternoon. Despite the earlier concession to vehicular transport, Anth embraced the return journey on foot—not running as originally imagined, the afternoon heat and absence of water suggesting a more measured pace. The pedestrian perspective offered a different appreciation of landscape, the gradual unfolding of scenery and settlement that hurried transport always obscures.
Honeysuckle Banks had performed its customary social alchemy during his absence—some campers departed, others arrived, the constant gentle flux that characterises these temporary communities. Among the newcomers, a Toyota Coaster caught Anth's attention—a mechanical sibling to our own beloved bus. The magnetic pull of shared experience drew him into conversation with its owners, a couple whose years on the road had started in Western Australia and accumulated into a treasure trove of stories. Their tales of distant landscapes and unexpected adventures flowed freely in the golden afternoon light, a reminder of the particular camaraderie that exists between those who have chosen wheels as home.
As darkness settled over the campsite, Anth retired to the quiet interior of our bus, tomorrow's plans already taking shape. The journey would continue northward to rendezvous with Terry, where our mobile home would rest for nearly three weeks while its caretaker embarked on the next clinical trial—another temporary separation from both Sal and bus that served the greater purpose of sustaining our chosen lifestyle. For now, however, the completed shelves stood as silent testament to productive solitude, awaiting Sal's eventual return and approval.En savoir plus
Solitary Rhythms: Anth's Interlude
13–16 mars 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 19 °C
The familiar interior of our nomadic home felt curiously altered—spaces designed for two now accommodating just one. Anth moved through this temporary solitude with purpose, the absence of Sal's presence both a void and an opportunity. Our partnership, so central to this wandering life, had temporarily divided into parallel journeys: Sal immersed in academic pursuits in Queensland whilst Anth remained as custodian of our wheeled sanctuary in Tasmania. This separation—a pragmatic necessity rather than emotional choice—now shaped the coming days into a different rhythm.
With the bus suddenly quieter, Anth turned his attention to projects that had lingered at the edges of our shared consciousness—tasks particularly suited to his skills that had been patiently awaiting their moment. The first order of business emerged from his ongoing fascination with geocaching—those modern treasure hunts that had become an entertaining subplot to our travels. Several Challenge Caches had been lingering in his mental inventory, their requirements now fulfilled and ready for documentation. There was something deeply satisfying in the methodical search, the decoding of cryptic hints, the triumphant moment of discovery, and finally, the ritual signing of the logbook. Each successful find represented another small victory against the puzzle-maker's ingenuity.
With these geometric conquests secured, Anth's attention pivoted toward a long-contemplated improvement to our mobile home. The space behind Sal's driver's seat had become a testament to the chaos theory of storage—items precariously stacked and wedged, their retrieval resembling an archaeological excavation more than organised access. The inefficiency had become a minor but persistent irritation in our otherwise streamlined existence. Proper shelving would transform this spatial conundrum into functional storage, a small enhancement to our daily living that would pay dividends with each item easily located rather than excavated.
The local Bunnings welcomed him with its familiar industrial vastness—aisles of potential stretching in every direction. Anth navigated this cathedral of DIY with the confidence of experience, selecting timber, brackets, screws and finishes with careful consideration of weight, durability and aesthetics. Each item chosen represented not just a component of shelving but a small investment in our continued comfort and organisation.
Materials secured, he pointed our bus northward, toward the diminutive settlement of Tunnack. There was poetic symmetry in this destination—Blue Haven Retreat had served as his solitary harbour once before, when circumstances had reversed and Sal had flown from Launceston, leaving him to navigate Tasmania alone. The "retreat" name suggested something rather more elaborate than the reality: a modest oval serving the small rural community, offering quiet space for travellers to temporarily rest. Its unassuming simplicity suited his current needs perfectly.
The bus settled into position at the edge of the oval, a solitary mechanical beast against the backdrop of Tasmania's agricultural heartland. Rolling pastures stretched toward distant hills, the landscape punctuated by weathered fence lines and occasional clusters of eucalyptus. The afternoon light cast long shadows across the grass as Anth established his impromptu workshop in the shade of the bus.
The Silky saw—that precision Japanese implement that had proven its worth countless times during our travels—now whined softly as it carved through timber. Wood shavings collected on the ovals grassy surface as measurements were double-checked, pieces test-fitted, and adjustments made. There was therapeutic value in this focused creation, the transformation of raw materials into functional form providing both distraction from Sal's absence and anticipation of her eventual return. The shelving units slowly emerged from chaos, each cut and join bringing order to what had previously been improvisation.
Between bouts of construction, Anth found relief in movement. The surrounding countryside offered a patchwork of dirt roads threading between pastoral properties—perfect territory for combining exercise with his geocaching pursuits. These caches had eluded him during previous visits, their coordinates noted but time having been insufficient for proper exploration. Now, with hours entirely his own to allocate, he jogged along rust-coloured roads that wound between paddocks, following digital breadcrumbs to hidden treasures. Each discovery brought the particular satisfaction of completion, of leaving no puzzle unsolved in this corner of Tasmania.
Three days passed in this rhythm of creation and exploration. Mornings began with the ritual preparation of a single coffee, its aroma filling the bus with familiar comfort despite the halved occupancy. Afternoons saw progress on the shelving project, interspersed with geocaching excursions that stretched his legs and refreshed his perspective. Evenings brought quiet contemplation as darkness settled over the oval, stars emerging overhead with extraordinary clarity in this region largely unbothered by artificial illumination.
The shelving units—promising yet incomplete—stood as a physical manifestation of this interlude at Tunnack. The final components would await acquisition at Anth's next destination, the familiar embrace of Honeysuckle Banks on the outskirts of Launceston. There, with access to another Bunnings for the remaining pieces, Anth would complete this testament to organised living. For now, the time had come to continue northward, to write the next chapter in this temporary solo journey while the countdown to reunion continued its steady progression.En savoir plus
Departures and Golden Arches
11–13 mars 2025, Australie ⋅ ⛅ 18 °C
The inexorable march of time—that ever-present counterpoint to our nomadic freedom—now commanded our full attention. Academic schedules and flight itineraries imposed their rigid framework upon our wanderings, compelling us eastward with determined purpose. Sal's online tutorial awaited, followed by tomorrow's flight to Queensland where her Master's studies would claim her for the coming month. Though we had savoured our unexpected extension at Lake Pedder, borrowed time eventually demands repayment.
We paused at Mt Field to replenish our water reserves, surprised to find the campground still heaving with humanity. Caravans and tents sprawled across every available patch, children's laughter punctuating the afternoon air. "When does peak season actually end?" we wondered aloud to each other, navigating between clustered vehicles to reach the water point. This persistent popularity suggested Tasmania's secret was perhaps not as well-kept as locals might wish to believe. With our tanks brimming—that most precious resource for continued independence secured—we consulted our digital oracle. The GPS offered its mathematical prophecy: our arrival at Seven Mile Beach would precede Sal's tutorial by precisely five minutes. Such razor-thin margins left no room for leisurely meanderings or spontaneous detours.
We slipped back into the arterial flow of traffic, the bus humming steadily beneath us as suburban landscapes gradually replaced wilderness vistas. Our conversation drifted between practical preparations and wistful reflections on our recent sojourn among mountains and mirrored waters. The windscreen framed an ever-changing canvas of approaching civilisation—power lines reclaiming the sky, road signs multiplying, human constructions asserting dominance over the natural world.
Seven Mile Beach day use area welcomed us like an old friend—that clandestine urban sanctuary we had claimed as our own on multiple occasions. Its proximity to Hobart Airport made it particularly valuable for transitions such as this, a liminal space between our preferred wilderness and the necessities of conventional living. We arrived with the prophesied five minutes to spare, the bus settling into position with practised ease as Sal gathered her academic materials and prepared to enter her digital classroom.
While Sal immersed herself in scholarly discourse, Anth seized the opportunity to complete unfinished business. Previous stays at this familiar haunt had left several geocaches undiscovered—those modern treasures hidden in plain sight, waiting for the initiated to uncover them. With determined stride, he set off across familiar terrain now transformed by purpose, his phone occasionally raised like a divining rod guiding him toward hidden caches.
Time—that constant companion of conventional existence—slipped by with deceptive swiftness. Two hours dissolved into memory, Sal's academic obligations concluded while Anth returned with the quiet satisfaction of successful geocaching conquests. Reunited in our mobile sanctuary, we contemplated the evening ahead. The prospect of cooking held little appeal on this night of transition, our mental energies already directed toward tomorrow's separation.
"McDonald's in Sorell?" The suggestion emerged simultaneously, that rare perfect synchronicity of thought that occasionally blesses long partnerships. We laughed at our shared craving for this most ordinary of indulgences—a reminder that even committed nomads occasionally desire the predictable comfort of familiar flavours. The golden arches beckoned from nearby Sorell, promising uncomplicated satisfaction and momentary reconnection with mainstream existence.
Our journey to this temple of globalised consistency was brief, the restaurant's interior bathed in that distinctive lighting that exists nowhere else in the natural world. We savoured our chosen combinations with the peculiar pleasure that comes from occasional deviation from self-prepared meals. The conversation flowed easily between us, deliberately avoiding dwelling on tomorrow's impending separation, focusing instead on plans for reunion and adventures that awaited our reconvened future.
Night had fully claimed the sky by our return to Seven Mile Beach, stars puncturing the darkness overhead as we nestled into our familiar spot. The gentle rhythm of distant waves provided accompaniment to our evening rituals—teeth brushed, blinds drawn, bed prepared. We lay together in the darkness, the warmth of proximity particularly poignant with separation looming, whispering plans and possibilities across the narrowing hours.
Morning arrived with characteristic Tasmanian crispness, sunlight filtering through our curtains to paint the interior in gentle gold. Breakfast passed in companionable quiet, each of us privately contemplating the coming month apart while outwardly maintaining cheerful practicality. Bags were checked, documents confirmed, the small preparations that precede air travel completed with methodical care.
The drive to Hobart Airport carried the weight of imminent farewell. We travelled the now-familiar route, conversation occasionally punctuated by comfortable silence. The airport appeared on the horizon, its utilitarian architecture a stark contrast to the natural cathedrals we had worshipped in mere days before. We navigated to the departures area, the bus finding temporary harbour among conventional vehicles of travellers with conventional lives.
Our goodbye carried the particular poignancy of practised separation—not our first, certainly not our last, yet never entirely without its sting. "A month," we reminded each other, a relatively modest span in life's grand calendar, yet significant within our chosen existence of shared experience. A final embrace, lingering yet constrained by public setting, before Sal shouldered her bag and turned toward the terminal doors, her figure gradually absorbed by the building's institutional neutrality.
Anth returned to the suddenly quieter bus, the absence of Sal's presence altering its familiar dimensions. The day stretched before him with possibilities—small freedoms of solitude balanced against the underlying loneliness of separation. For now, one more night remained at Seven Mile Beach, one more sunset to witness alone, one more evening meal prepared for one instead of two. Tomorrow would bring new decisions about where to pilot their temporarily single-crewed vessel, but today was for adjustment, for the gentle recalibration that follows each loving departure.
As night approached, the bus sat quietly at the edge of Seven Mile Beach, a solitary sentinel beneath the emerging stars. Inside, Anth moved through spaces still echoing with Sal's temporary absence, his thoughts already counting down the days until their nomadic wholeness would be restored once more.En savoir plus
Reflections on Sacred Waters
28 févr.–11 mars 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 14 °C
Civilisation gradually relinquished its hold as we journeyed deeper into Tasmania's magnificent World Heritage wilderness. The road narrowed, straightened, then curved again, each kilometre stripping away another layer of the constructed world. While more remote regions existed—accessible only to those willing to traverse them on foot—this particular route represented one of the precious few vehicular gateways into Tasmania's untamed heart, a corridor through time and terrain that beckoned us with wild promise.
Mt Field slipped past our windows, its forested slopes a verdant tapestry of ancient growth. We exchanged knowing glances, silently agreeing to return here when our adult children might join our nomadic existence—to share the walking trails that wound through this temperate paradise. The landscape transformed dramatically as we continued westward, the magnificent dolomite cliffs of the Needles and Sentinels thrusting dramatically from the earth like stone sentries guarding forgotten realms. Their jagged silhouettes etched against the pearl-grey sky conjured images of primordial times when this land first emerged from the cosmic forge.
Lake Pedder finally revealed itself, a vast mirror stretched between embracing mountains, reflecting heaven upon earth in breathtaking symmetry. Unlike our previous winter sojourn when we'd been the sole inhabitants of Ted's Beach, this late-summer visit found a scattering of other travellers similarly drawn to this remote sanctuary. Nevertheless, our preferred position—perfectly situated at the water's edge—awaited us like a faithful friend, unoccupied and welcoming. We eased our bus into this familiar embrace, aligning our windows to capture the expansive vista that had haunted our dreams since our last departure.
The afternoon brought unexpected communion when two vans arrived nearby, disgorging four youthful adventurers who plunged enthusiastically into the lake's crystalline waters. Drawn to their exuberance, we wandered across to exchange greetings, discovering they had just completed the formidable Western Arthurs Traverse—one of Tasmania's most challenging and spectacular alpine circuits. Their eyes still carried the luminescence of high places, their conversation peppered with tales of narrow ridgelines and precipitous descents that had tested both courage and endurance. We lingered in their reflected glory, absorbing their stories until dusk ushered us all toward shelter. By morning they had vanished like mountain mist, their next adventure already unfurling before them.
The ensuing days brought an ever-changing tableau of fellow nomads—some arriving with elaborate encampments, others with the barest essentials. We observed the theatre of humanity in miniature: tents blossoming like exotic flowers; motorhomes establishing temporary suburbs; roof-top tents perched like eagles' nests; swags unrolled directly beneath the infinite sky; and one particularly impressive UniMog that resembled a terrestrial spaceship ready for interplanetary exploration. Each setup revealed something intimate about its inhabitants—the minimalists, the comfort-seekers, the technically inclined, the romantics—all drawn here by the same primal longing for connection with the wild.
Tasmania's capricious climate maintained its reputation, shrouding us initially in overcast skies interspersed with gentle rain. Yet even this temperamental display seemed mild compared to the meteorological drama unfolding in Queensland, our former home before embracing life on wheels. Cyclone Alfred—the first tropical cyclone to threaten Brisbane in decades—careened toward the coast, disrupting plans throughout the eastern seaboard. Sal's impending flight and first week of university attendance fell casualty to nature's intervention, her Master's degree progression momentarily paused by forces beyond human control.
What initially brought disappointment transformed into unexpected blessing, as the postponement gifted us another precious week together. The shadow of impending separation had been looming—particularly poignant so soon after Anth's trial in Melbourne had previously divided us. We received this reprieve with quiet gratitude, savouring the extension of our shared existence at the edge of this primordial lake.
Nature's mood shifted dramatically as if celebrating our extended communion. Clouds that had clustered around mountain peaks dispersed like scattered thoughts, revealing a canvas of perfect azure stretched from horizon to horizon. The lake's surface transformed from textured slate to liquid sapphire, mirroring the heavens with such perfect fidelity that the boundary between above and below became a philosophical question rather than visual certainty.
Each afternoon brought a sunset more magnificent than the last—a celestial art exhibition with mountains as the gallery and Lake Pedder as the reflective medium. Crimson bled into amber, violet into indigo, each composition unique yet familiar, ephemeral yet eternal. We stood together at the water's edge, fingers intertwined, witnessing the daily miracle in reverent silence, understanding without words that moments like these formed the true currency of our chosen existence.
Practical matters asserted themselves occasionally—the laundry that had been thwarted in Glenorchy now fluttered on improvised lines, caressed by the mountain breeze. We surrendered to the lake's crystalline embrace, our bodies initially shocked by its alpine chill before adapting to its invigorating purity. Our grocery supplies—planned for a briefer stay—required creative management, particularly as our fresh vegetables dwindled sooner than anticipated. Yet even this limitation became an opportunity for culinary improvisation rather than hardship.
The long weekend brought an influx of locals, transforming our tranquil shore into a temporary playground of human celebration. Jet-skis carved glistening furrows across the lake's surface before disappearing into distant coves. Children's laughter harmonised with adult conversation, creating a symphony of communal joy as families embraced this perfect confluence of weather and landscape. Yet like all temporal gatherings, this too dispersed as swiftly as it had assembled, leaving the lakeshore once again to those few souls seeking extended communion with wilderness.
For our final day at Lake Pedder, we embarked on a pilgrimage to Gordon Dam—a destination previously obscured by winter fog during our visit with Justin and Andy. This time, however, sunshine illuminated the extraordinary engineering achievement in all its curved concrete glory. We traversed its dizzying arc, the absence of biting cold allowing us to linger and appreciate both the human ingenuity of its construction and the breathtaking natural amphitheatre that cradles it.
Our farewell to this beloved landscape culminated at Strathgordon's Twelve Trees restaurant, where we indulged in what can only be described as transcendent pub fare—meals whose flavours and execution surpassed any reasonable expectation for such a remote outpost. With satisfied palates and hearts brimming with accumulated beauty, we reluctantly turned our wheels eastward, pausing at Mt Field only to replenish our water reserves—that most essential element of continued independence.
As Lake Pedder receded in our mirrors, we carried with us a renewed appreciation for Tasmania's wild heart, for the serendipitous extension of our time together, and for the realisation that sometimes nature's intervention—even when it disrupts carefully laid plans—delivers blessings we could never have orchestrated ourselves.En savoir plus
Haircuts and Horizons: A Nomad's Detour
27–28 févr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 22 °C
The gentle rhythm of our nomadic existence continued its delicate pendulum swing between wilderness and civilisation—this time dictated by the mundane necessity of Sal's hairdresser appointment. One more day tethered to the constructed world stretched before us, a brief intermission in our perpetual pursuit of solitude and natural beauty. As dawn painted the sky in watercolour hues, we slipped away from our temporary harbour at the day use area.
Sorrel greeted us with its small-town bustle, a modest outpost of convenience that served as our final portal of practicality before our intended retreat. The post office—a squat brick building with its familiar red insignia—received our carefully packaged parcel, another thread maintaining connection with the distant conventional world we had largely left behind. Each errand represented both necessity and constraint: the refuelling of our diesel tanks a reminder of our reliance on infrastructure, the topping up of water reserves a preparation for coming independence.
It was during this water ritual that serendipity delivered a kindred spirit. Another Coaster owner pulled alongside us, his vehicle bearing the subtle hallmarks of a home rather than merely a conveyance. The Tasmanian local emanated the particular weathered vitality that comes from decades of surfing—his skin textured like well-oiled leather, eyes perpetually narrowed as if still scanning distant swells. He spoke of his own nomadic chapters, years spent traversing the mainland in pursuit of perfect waves, his vernacular peppered with the specialised dialect of surf breaks and ocean conditions. Our brief exchange carried the easy camaraderie of those who share an unconventional approach to living, before we parted ways with casual waves and genuine well-wishes.
With practical matters addressed, we relocated to another nondescript carpark where Sal could attend her online tutorial—the digital world temporarily infiltrating our analogue existence. For two hours, she would immerse herself in academic discourse while Anth set off on his own small adventure, pursuing a geocache that had eluded previous attempts. The urban landscape offered little in the way of concealment, however, and Anth's search concluded without triumph, the small hidden treasure remaining elusive among the constructed environment.
As Sal's tutorial concluded and her device was powered down, we faced the familiar question of where to spend the approaching night. Rather than pressing closer to Glenorchy where tomorrow's appointment awaited, we chose to retreat to Roche Beach—a day use area nestled between our previous night's accommodation at Seven Mile Beach and Lauderdale, where we had briefly dwelled during November's wanderings. Of all the unofficial overnight sanctuaries this region offered, Roche Beach held a special allure—a level expanse of gravel, tucked away from curious eyes, and close enough to the shoreline that the sea's percussion could serve as our evening soundtrack.
We claimed our place in the nearly deserted carpark, the bus settling into position with familiar creaks and sighs. The beach beckoned with its pristine sweep of sand, and we answered its call, our footprints creating temporary signatures along the water's edge. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the shore, transforming ordinary pebbles into jewels and ripples into liquid gold. Together we wandered, collecting fleeting moments rather than souvenirs, our conversation flowing and ebbing like the tide itself.
Evening drew its gradual curtain across the sky as we returned to our mobile sanctuary. The simple ritual of preparing dinner within our compact kitchen carried the comfort of home regardless of location. Later, as darkness enveloped the world outside our windows, we indulged in the guilty pleasure of television bingeing—this technological comfort a curious counterpoint to our otherwise stripped-back existence. Through the night, only the rhythmic crashing of waves interrupted the silence, nature's lullaby accompanying us into dreams.
Morning arrived with characteristic Tasmanian crispness, the early light filtering through our curtains as we prepared for the day's obligations. We navigated back toward civilisation, the Tasman Bridge arcing gracefully over the water as we crossed into Hobart's northern suburbs. Glenorchy received us precisely on schedule, Sal departing for her appointment while Anth pursued domestic necessities.
The discovery of the laundromat's demise—machines removed, space vacant—provided an unexpected pivot in our routine. Hand washing would now become part of our itinerant existence, another adaptation in our ever-evolving lifestyle. Between errands, Anth replenished our supply of canned tuna—that humble yet reliable component of our daily lunch wraps, a practical staple of nomadic nutrition.
Reunited after Sal's transformation—her freshly cut hair a small luxury in our otherwise simplified life—we found ourselves at a crossroads of possibility. The open road beckoned in all directions, and with the spontaneity that characterised our best decisions, we turned toward Lake Pedder. Ted's Beach, nestled in the heart of Tasmania's World Heritage wilderness, called to us like an old friend. We had discovered its magnificence over six months prior, sharing its splendour with Justin and Andy during their temporary convergence with our journey. Now, with appointments honoured and civilisation's requirements satisfied, we pointed our home westward, toward the ancient forests and mirror-like waters that represented everything we sought in our chosen life of beautiful uncertainty.En savoir plus
Between Flights and Freedom
25–27 févr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 20 °C
The serenity of Lime Bay eventually surrendered to the persistent tug of obligation. The familiar ritual of packing away our temporary home carried a particular melancholy this time—each item stowed away seemed to whisper of paradise abandoned prematurely. We moved with reluctant efficiency, folding chairs that had cradled us during breathtaking sunsets, securing cupboards that had housed our modest provisions, transforming our settled space back into a vessel of movement. Though we yearned to linger amongst the whispers of the eucalypts and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, Anth's impending flight to Adelaide imposed its unyielding timeline upon our otherwise fluid existence.
There was always something jarring about reintroducing appointments and schedules into our life of beautiful uncertainty. The nomadic freedom we'd cultivated—where days were measured by tides rather than hours, where destinations emerged from whim rather than necessity—now bent beneath the weight of commercial aviation's precise demands. The calendar, so often relegated to a mere suggestion in our wandering life, suddenly reasserted its authority with the stark reminder of flight numbers and departure gates.
We traced our path back along now-familiar roads, the bus humming beneath us as the landscape transformed from coastal wilderness to the gradually intensifying signs of civilisation. Our conversation ebbed and flowed, touching on Anth's upcoming trial screening —the pragmatic necessity that replenished our financial reserves and sustained our unconventional lifestyle. Every kilometre toward Hobart Airport represented the delicate balance we maintained: freedom purchased through occasional concessions to convention.
At the airport, our farewell carried the practised ease of temporary separation—a brief intermission rather than an ending. As Anth disappeared through the security gates with his small overnight bag, Sal redirected the bus toward the nearby Anaconda carpark, our temporary urban anchorage. There, nestled between conventional vehicles of weekend adventurers, our home-on-wheels became a curious island of permanent expedition.
While Anth navigated the businesslike atmosphere of Adelaide, Sal created her own rhythm to the day. The interior of the bus transformed into an impromptu study, her Masters research spreading across the dining table as she deepened her academic pursuit—another dimension of our multifaceted life on the road. The afternoon brought a small indulgence: a proper café coffee, the aromatic steam rising from the cup as she savoured this urban luxury, a momentary departure from our usually self-sufficient existence.
As dusk painted the sky in watercolour hues, Sal guided our home toward Seven Mile Beach, finding sanctuary in a day use area that offered both safety and connection to nature. There's an art to existing in such spaces—arriving after the day visitors depart, leaving before the morning arrivals, creating no disturbance, leaving no trace. Our footprint on the world remained as gentle as possible, our presence a ghost's whisper rather than a proclamation. Through the bus windows, stars replaced streetlights, the gentle soundtrack of distant waves a reminder of why we chose this life of beautiful uncertainty.
The following afternoon brought reunion, as Anth emerged from the terminal building with stories of brief immersion in the conventional world. Together again, we shared the warmth of homecoming within our modest sanctuary parked at the edge of wilderness. For one more night, we claimed this borrowed space between permission and prohibition, grateful for the temporary harbour. While our hearts yearned always for the untamed places—those remote corners where human presence thins to almost nothing—we had learned to find moments of peace even in these compromised locations. Necessity occasionally dictated our geography, but never our philosophy of seeking beauty in the unbounded life we had chosen.En savoir plus
Storms and Strangers
17–25 févr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 18 °C
The journey to Lime Bay stretched before us like a ribbon of memories, a 90-minute drive along the Tasman Peninsula that had become comfortingly familiar during our year-long Tasmanian odyssey. After an agonising month apart, our reunion carried the sweet weight of anticipation. The bus hummed beneath us, a mechanical heartbeat synchronising with our own as we navigated the well-worn path, our fingers intertwined across the centre console, the air between us electric with unspoken joy. Our separation had left a hollow space that now filled with the warmth of togetherness, each kilometre bringing us closer to the rhythm of shared existence that had become our sanctuary.
The final stretch of dirt road unfurled beneath our wheels, dust clouds billowing in our wake as we entered the National Park. Though Monday typically promised solitude, the campsite buzzed with unexpected life—caravans and motorhomes dotted the landscape like colourful islands, tents rippling in the coastal breeze. We found ourselves momentarily adrift in this sea of fellow travellers, seeking our place among them.
We settled initially in the familiar embrace of our previous spot, the bus finding its home not far from an impressive caravan and truck setup that commanded attention. This vehicular fortress, we would discover, housed "Vet In a Van"—a remarkable family of six who had transformed their nomadic existence into both livelihood and lifestyle. Their five years on the road made our twelve months seem like mere prologue, their children running wild and free with the unbridled joy that comes from a childhood unbound by conventional walls.
Days melted into one another until Anth's keen eye spotted opportunity—a vacant space closer to the water's edge, offering the seclusion we silently craved. With practised efficiency, we relocated our mobile home, positioning ourselves to capture the unobstructed ballet of light and water across the bay. This fortuitous move proved prophetic as the weekend descended upon us, bringing with it a flood of Tasmanian locals determined to wring the last golden drops from summer's waning days. While the campsite swelled to capacity around us, our view remained sacrosanct, the vastness of the bay unfolding before us like a private canvas painted anew with each passing hour.
Amidst this seasonal migration, we found kindred spirits in Bernie and Deb, a couple whose three years of wandering had polished their repertoire of tales to a brilliant shine. Their laughter drifted across the campground during our daytime chats, stories exchanged like precious currency as the sun cast dappled shadows through the coastal trees. With casual ease, they shared fragments of their journey that painted vivid mental postcards of distant landscapes. Their presence reminded us of the unexpected gifts that come from opening one's door to the possibility of connection, even in brief encounters beneath Tasmania's azure sky.
In the early hours of one night, we were startled from slumber by nature's midnight theatre. The heavens cracked open above our roof, consciousness returning to us in fragments illuminated by brilliant flashes. Great sheets of lightning transformed the bay into a strobing otherworld, thunder rolling across the water like celestial bowling balls. We lay awake in our bed, simultaneously sheltered yet intimate with the storm's raw power, the elemental display evoking memories of Queensland's tropical tempests—a sensory souvenir we hadn't realised we'd been missing until it arrived unannounced at our door, demanding audience in the darkest hours.
Sunday arrived with the inevitability of the tide, and with it came the mass exodus of weekend revellers. Cars packed and caravans hitched, they retreated to their regular lives, leaving behind only six scattered encampments in their wake. The abrupt tranquility settled over us like a comfortable blanket, the absence of human bustle allowing nature's subtle symphony to rise once more to prominence.
With this newfound solitude as our companion, we ventured along the shoreline, our footprints the only fresh marks upon the sand. The beach stretched before us, wiped clean by the receding crowd, as if offering itself anew for our exploration. We walked hand in hand, the gentle percussion of waves keeping time with our steps, savouring the exquisite contradiction of being simultaneously adrift and perfectly anchored in this wild corner of Tasmania.En savoir plus
Return to the Road
16–17 févr. 2025, Australie ⋅ ⛅ 12 °C
Reunited at last, we navigated our way through familiar roads to the Seven Mile Beach day use area, our trusted sanctuary near Hobart airport. Like its northern counterpart at Honeysuckle Banks near Launceston, this hidden gem tucked behind windswept dunes offered us the perfect refuge - close enough to hear the distant hum of aircraft, yet worlds away in its tranquil isolation. The gentle whisper of waves provided a soothing backdrop as we settled into our cherished routine, the comfort of being together again washing over us like the tide itself.
Dawn painted the sky in watercolour hues as Sal set about giving Anth his much-needed haircut, our laughter mingling with the morning chorus of shore birds. Wayward strands of hair caught the golden light as they drifted away on the sea breeze, a small ceremony of renewal marking our fresh start. We followed this with a leisurely stroll along the beach, our footprints marking our path across sand still cool from the night, while we shared stories of our time apart and wove plans for the adventures ahead.
The practical necessities of nomadic life beckoned, drawing us towards Sorell's familiar streets. As we replenished our supplies, each item carefully chosen and stored away represented another step towards resuming our shared journey. A heartfelt visit to Simon and Sue's place followed - their generosity in providing our beloved bus a safe harbour during our separation deserved more than mere thanks could express.
With gratitude offered and farewells exchanged, we pointed our home on wheels toward Lime Bay, a place that held precious memories from months past. The open road stretched before us like an invitation, promising new chapters in our continuing adventure. The familiar purr of our engine and the rhythm of the road beneath our wheels felt like a homecoming of its own - not to any fixed address, but to the lifestyle we had chosen together.En savoir plus
Thirty-One Days of Separate Skies
15 janv.–16 févr. 2025, Australie ⋅ 🌬 21 °C
With resigned reluctance, we bid farewell to Penstock Lagoon, our hearts heavy with the knowledge that two days could never satisfy the soul's yearning for a place that had so often become our sanctuary. The Highland Highway stretched before us like a ribbon of memories as we descended, each curve and vista whispering stories of our year-long Tasmanian odyssey. The landscape seemed to mirror our emotions – the highlands gradually giving way to gentler terrain, much like our reluctant transition from wilderness to civilisation.
This bittersweet journey led us to Sorell, whose familiar streets greeted us like an old friend offering both comfort and gentle reminders of impending farewells. At the water station, we filled our tanks with reverence, observing how this simple act had evolved into something sacred during our months on the road – water no longer merely a utility but a precious gift to be honored. In these quiet moments of connection with earth's elements, we reflected on how profoundly Tasmania had changed us, teaching us reverence for resources we once took for granted.
These lessons continued to unfold as we embraced the mundane rituals that now carried deeper meaning – post office errands and laundry transforming into poignant ceremonies of preparation. Each item collected, each garment folded, carried the weight of transition between worlds. The carwash became a sacred space of its own, where we watched months of exploration wash away in rivulets of muddy water – a symbolic cleansing as our bus shed the physical evidence of our wild adventures while we held the memories ever closer within the chambers of our hearts.
Against the backdrop of this emotional cleansing, Simon and Sue's property appeared on the horizon like a promised haven, where our beloved mobile home would rest during our separate journeys. The evening air around us held a strange electricity – that peculiar tension between anticipation and dread that accompanies all significant partings in life's journey. When morning arrived with its cruel 4 AM darkness and the disappointing revelation of no Uber driver, we recognized the universe's final lesson in flexibility – a cornerstone of our nomadic philosophy that would serve us through the coming separation.
The airport drop-off unfolded like the closing scene of a beloved novel, our goodbye carrying the weight of 31 approaching days of separation. Standing beneath the harsh exterior lights, our embrace held volumes of unspoken devotion that transcended the physical space between us. After Anth disappeared toward the terminal entrance, Sal returned to our suddenly-too-quiet bus, the familiar dashboard now a silent witness to this new solitude as she drove back to Simon and Sue's property before calling a more reliable taxi. Her journey to Boomer Bay became a meditation on solitude, the wheels humming a melancholy tune against the Tasmanian asphalt that had carried our shared dreams for so many months.
This separation painted two distinct canvases of experience – Anth's days unfolding against Melbourne's urban backdrop, a jarring contrast to our peaceful wanderings. The trial days moved in a mechanical rhythm – methodical yet lacking true intellectual engagement, each hour marked only by the anticipation of evening's release. In those night hours, games of Blood on the Clocktower offered fleeting connection with strangers, yet paradoxically highlighted the absence of the deepest connection of all, like stars visible only because of surrounding darkness.
When the trial concluded, Anth reconnected with Jack, whom he hadn't seen since that final day in Melbourne before we boarded the ferry to Tasmania. Their conversations over coffee bridged the gap between our old life and new, carrying echoes of farewell hugs and last-minute adventures shared.
Meanwhile, Canberra wrapped Sal in the warm embrace of old friendships, offering a different kind of sanctuary – one woven from laughter over card games, the satisfying crack of pool balls, and conversations that flowed as freely as wine under familiar skies. Her running shoes traced familiar suburban paths, each stride both a testimony to continuity amidst change and a rhythmic reminder of the different pace of life we'd come to cherish. Yet beneath the surface joy of reconnection flowed an undercurrent of longing – for morning coffees shared in ever-changing landscapes, for the gentle rhythm of life with Anth, for the simplicity that had become our shared language of love.
From our separate points on the mainland, we watched with shared anguish as bushfires swept Tasmania's West Coast, consuming the landscapes of Zeehan and Corinna where we had so recently gathered precious memories. Our beloved island's distance became a physical ache, our concern for both people and places binding us across our temporary separation.
When the wheel of time finally brought the moment of reunion, it carried the sweetness of rain after drought, of dawn after endless night. Anth, arriving first to our waiting home, pointing our dormant sanctuary toward the airport once more. The anticipation of completeness hummed through every fiber of his being as he watched for Sal's arrival, his heart quickening with each passing minute until she appeared – not just a partner returning, but the missing half of our shared soul. As we embraced in the shadow of our waiting home, the circle completed itself, our nomadic journey ready to continue with renewed appreciation for the extraordinary life we had built together – one of freedom, connection, and endless discovery that could weather any separation.En savoir plus
Mists and Memories
13–15 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 21 °C
As we traced the familiar route past Devonport and southward into Deloraine, our hearts echoed with memories of Grammy's presence, her laughter still lingering in the corners of our minds. The landscape rolled past our windows like pages of a cherished photo album, each vista stirring thoughts of how our journey would transform once we returned to the mainland. Tasmania had taught us the profound beauty of revisiting places, of letting them seep deeper into our souls with each passing encounter. Yet we knew that the vast expanse of mainland Australia would call for different rhythms, new patterns of exploration that would challenge our newfound comfort with familiar paths.
The ascent into the Central Highlands felt like coming home, this realm of wild beauty that had claimed a special chamber in our hearts. Here, where the air grew thin and crisp, the dolomite outcrops emerged around every bend like ancient guardians. Though we had passed this way before, the landscape seemed to reveal itself anew, as if nature herself was offering us one more gift of discovery before our departure.
At Pine Lake, we paused to honour one of the sixty short walks we had previously left unexplored. The Pencil Pines stood as living monuments to Tasmania's uniqueness, their twisted forms telling tales of centuries passed. Each gnarled branch and weather-worn trunk spoke of resilience, of finding beauty in adaptation - a lesson that resonated deeply with our own journey of transformation through this wild isle.
The Great Lake yielded to familiar roads, leading us once more to Penstock Lagoon - a place that had become sacred in our Tasmanian story. This fifth visit felt different, touched by the bittersweet knowledge of our approaching departure. Finding our usual lakeside haven occupied, we discovered unexpected joy in the spot Anth had previously scouted, tucked away from the water's edge but embraced by the bush's tender arms. Sometimes, we reflected, life's sweetest moments come from embracing the unexpected, from finding peace in plan B.
Morning arrived wrapped in fog, its tendrils weaving through the gum trees like memories made visible. In these quiet moments, watching the mist dance its slow waltz through the branches, we felt the profound weight of impending farewell. Two nights passed like whispered prayers, each moment precious in its transience. Though we harboured hopes of one final return before our ultimate departure from Tasmania, the pull of Hobart and waiting flights reminded us that all journeys, even the most beloved, must find their natural conclusion.
This place had become more than just a favourite camping spot; it had become a metaphor for our entire Tasmanian adventure - wild yet welcoming, remote yet familiar, each visit adding layers to our understanding of both the landscape and ourselves. As we prepared to leave, we carried with us not just memories, but profound gratitude for how this place had shaped our understanding of home, belonging, and the beautiful impermanence of nomadic life.En savoir plus
Where Paths Cross and Hearts Linger
10–13 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 20 °C
The journey to Dip Falls felt like answering a long-whispered call, a promise finally being honoured after missed opportunities with Grammy that had lingered in our hearts. Each turn of the road carried us deeper into our own narrative of discovery, the landscape around us a silent witness to this moment of completion. When the falls revealed themselves, they took our breath away - not just with their beauty, but with their uniqueness. The face of the falls, composed of perfect dolomite cubes, seemed almost architectural in its precision, yet entirely wild in its formation. Standing there, we felt a deep gratitude for Tasmania's endless capacity to surprise us, this island that had become our teacher in the art of waterfall appreciation.
The road beckoned us towards Burnie, a familiar yet long-unvisited harbour town that held its own collection of our Tasmanian memories. The practical need for a suitcase to accommodate Anth's upcoming Melbourne journey offered a perfect excuse to reacquaint ourselves with its streets and stories. Like so many moments in our nomadic life, even this simple errand felt touched by the greater narrative of our journey - a small preparation for temporary parting woven into the tapestry of our shared adventure.
The eastward journey continued until we reached Midway at Sulphur Creek, where the sight of countless motorhomes and caravans pressed together like sardines gave us pause. The decision to move on wasn't just about physical space - it was about honouring the way we chose to experience this landscape, the intimate connection we sought with each place we called home.
Life's practical rhythms called us to Ulverstone's Laundromat, where even the mundane task of washing bedding became part of our travelling ritual. While the machines hummed their familiar song, we wandered the town like curious children, discovering its hidden corners. A park offered moments of peaceful contemplation, the beach whispered its eternal secrets, and a small conservation area reminded us of nature's resilience in urban spaces. Back in our bus, the aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the salt air, creating a moment of perfect contentment before we collected our fresh linens and made the short journey to the Berry Patch.
Reuniting with Terry felt like picking up a conversation barely paused, though nearly a year had passed since our first meeting. His two Cockatiels, faithful companions on his own journey, watched as he proudly showed Anth the evolution of his caravan - each new addition a chapter in his own story of transformation. What began as a few weeks' adventure had blossomed into two years of discovery, a testament to Tasmania's magnetic pull on the wandering soul. Our shared meal became a celebration of connection, the combining of our lunch supplies symbolic of how travel weaves individual stories into collective experiences. Other travellers, drawn into Terry's orbit during his extended stay, joined our circle, each bringing their own flavour to our impromptu feast.
The decision to postpone Cradle Mountain's call in favour of these precious days with Terry felt deeply right. In the midst of peak season's bustle, we found ourselves choosing the wealth of human connection over the solitude of hiking trails. Yet time, that eternal wanderer, reminded us of our approaching flights and separate paths ahead. Our farewell to Terry carried the weight of meaningful friendship, even as we set our course for Penstock Lagoon, our final destination before returning to Hobart.En savoir plus
Dust, Tides, and Quiet Goodbyes
9–10 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ 🌬 21 °C
As we pulled away from Periwinkle Beach, a bittersweet realisation washed over us like the gentle coastal winds - this might be our final embrace with Tasmania's wild western shores until our paths would bring us back again. This rugged coastline had been our initial baptism into wilderness, our first profound encounter with the raw, untamed spirit of Tasmania that had captured our hearts almost twelve months ago. Each kilometre felt like a farewell love letter to a landscape that had fundamentally altered our understanding of journey and home.
Our route traced familiar contours, a pilgrimage of remembrance. The detour to Preminghana Indigenous area felt like a moment of quiet reverence, connecting us to the deeper, more ancient stories of this land. From the lookout, the wind farm at Bluff Point stood as a testament to human innovation meeting natural grandeur - enormous turbines spinning their silent songs against the expansive Tasmanian sky.
The dirt road welcomed our travel-worn bus, another layer of dust barely distinguishable from the previous coating - a subtle testament to our wanderings. Our nomadic life had become a manuscript of experiences, each journey writing itself delicately over the last, creating a rich tapestry of memories.
Two potential campsites beckoned - one with amenities and likely crowds, the other a free boat ramp offering an uninterrupted view towards Robbins Island. Our choice was instinctive, drawn to the raw, unfiltered connection with the landscape. The retreating tide exposed an extraordinary canvas of sand flats stretching impossibly towards Robbins Island, a vast emptiness that spoke of potential and waiting. Though no cattle drive materialised to break the silence, the landscape itself felt alive with unspoken stories.
Morning arrived with the tide's embrace, water nearly touching our bus - a gentle reminder of nature's constant, rhythmic movements. A brief stop at the alternative campsite confirmed our earlier decision; the abundance of travellers only reinforced our preference for solitude.
Smithton offered practical necessities - fuel, water, and a surprise final encounter with Ben and Kerry. This chance meeting, our sixth unexpected reunion, felt like a fitting punctuation to this chapter of our journey. Connections forged on the road often carry a magical, ephemeral quality - intense yet transient.
Turning eastward along the Bass Highway felt like closing another circle, retracing the very first leg of our Tasmanian adventure. Potential camps danced in our imagination - Midway at Sulphur Creek, our inaugural Tasmanian campsite, or the Berry Patch where Terry, that fascinating traveller who had intended a brief visit yet found himself embraced by Tasmania's magnetic pull, awaited our return.En savoir plus
Crimson Skies at Periwinkle
8–9 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ 🌬 19 °C
Northward we journeyed along roads that whispered memories of past travels, each bend and vista holding echoes of moments shared both alone and with Grammy. The familiar landscape rolled past our windows like pages of a well-loved book, each scene stirring deeper connections to this wild corner of Tasmania that had become so much a part of our story.
Approaching Marrawah, memories of our previous visit - when the bustling Green Point campground had guided us to the welcoming embrace of the Inn - danced in our minds. Despite knowing the unlikelihood of finding space during peak season, we felt drawn to revisit the free camp, pulled by the invisible threads that so often weave through our nomadic life.
As expected, the campground buzzed with the energy of countless travellers, their temporary homes dotting the landscape like a village born of wanderlust. Yet amidst this tapestry of strangers, a familiar sight caught our eye - the distinctive silhouette of Ben and Kerry's Conquerer Camper van, a recurring character in our Tasmanian story. What started as a simple plan to leave a note transformed into another chapter of our evolving friendship as we discovered Kerry working away in their mobile sanctuary. The warmth of connection deepened as Ben arrived with their boys, the children's presence adding a vibrant energy to our impromptu reunion.
As we shared our thoughts about the crowded campground, fate played its hand through a stranger's casual suggestion of the day use area at Periwinkle Beach. This fifth encounter with Ben and Kerry felt like both a confirmation of the beautiful randomness of nomadic life and a gentle nudge toward our next destination. Our farewells carried the weight of shared experiences and the lightness of knowing that Tasmania's roads might yet bring us together again.
The short journey to Periwinkle Beach revealed a stark contrast - from the bustling energy of Green Point to the profound solitude of our new haven. Here, where the rocky beach met the edge of civilisation, we found ourselves alone with the elements. The northerly winds, nature's wild breath, transformed the usually imposing waves into gentle rhythms that rocked our bus like a lullaby, reminding us of nature's ever-changing moods.
As day surrendered to evening, the west coast orchestrated a farewell symphony of colour that took our breath away. The crimson skies painted the world in hues so intense they seemed to set the very air ablaze, a final gift from this wild coastline that had become so dear to us. In these moments of natural splendour, we felt profoundly grateful for the way our nomadic life continuously led us to such perfect moments of solitude and beauty.En savoir plus
Melodies of the Arthur River
7–8 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☀️ 18 °C
The familiar comfort of bitumen beneath our wheels marked our return to coastal roads, as we traced Tasmania's wild western edge northward. The promise of tomorrow's river cruise, a thoughtful Christmas gift from Grammy, pulled us toward Arthur River like an invisible thread connecting family across distances. Her gesture bridged the physical space between us, a reminder that love flows like water, finding its way through the landscapes of our wandering life.
Retracing our path from a year ago stirred memories as delicate as morning mist, each bend and vista echoing with whispers of our earlier passage. Arthur River welcomed us with three possible havens, and though the Manuka Campground wouldn't typically call to our wild hearts, its proximity to tomorrow's adventure made it feel predestined. As night fell, our thoughts danced between memories of past visits and the gentle anticipation of dawn's promises.
Morning arrived with tender urgency, and a brief drive brought us to our vessel, 'Reflections' - not the historic 'Red Boat' we'd hoped for, which lay wounded by recent wild weather, but a worthy vessel nonetheless. There was something profound about how the west coast's untamed spirit had shaped even this small detail of our journey, a reminder that nature's story writes itself into every moment.
As Boris and Emma, our guides in this family enterprise, steered us up the Arthur River, our minds naturally drifted to another river journey shared with Grammy and Fran on the Gordon. Though the Arthur lacked the Gordon's profound depths, it held its own wild beauty - a different kind of pristine that spoke of untold stories and untouched corners. Boris's narrative wove through our journey like silk, his passion for this place flowing through tales that transformed the landscape into living history.
The Sea Eagles' appearance, swooping with ancient grace for their daily tribute of raw steak, brought nature's majesty into sharp focus. These moments of wild connection, orchestrated yet authentic, reminded us of how thin the veil between human and natural worlds can be in places like this.
As Emma prepared our lunch on shore, the aroma of home-cooked food mingling with the forest air, Boris led us through the surrounding woodland. Though we'd traversed countless Tasmanian trails before, this walk felt different - perhaps because it was Grammy's gift that had brought us here, adding another layer of family connection to our nomadic tale. The meal that followed tasted of more than just skilled preparation; it was seasoned with shared stories and the warmth of human connection.
The journey back became an unexpected symphony of moments as Boris cradled his banjo, his weathered fingers finding melodies that seemed to rise from the river itself. Each note danced across the water, harmonising with the gentle splash of waves against the boat's hull. His songs, born of years living alongside this wild river, carried stories of love, loss, and the enduring spirit of Tasmania's west coast. In that musical interlude, time seemed to slow, allowing us to absorb every detail - the late afternoon light filtering through the trees, the rhythm of the river's flow, and the way music can transform a simple boat ride into something sacred.
Bidding farewell to Boris and Emma felt like closing a cherished book, yet the open road ahead hummed with possibility. As we climbed back into our bus, our hearts were full with the day's experiences - another beautiful thread woven into the tapestry of our wandering life.En savoir plus
Roads of Patient Discovery
6–7 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ 🌬 15 °C
The Western Explorer stretched before us like a weathered tapestry of possibilities, its rugged surface telling tales of countless journeys past. Our bus, more than just a vessel but a companion in our wandering life, handled the washouts and rough patches with unwavering grace. As Trial Harbour's brilliant sunshine yielded to a gentle shroud of clouds and misty rain, we found ourselves wrapped in contemplative conversation about family and future.
Our thoughts meandered to our adult children, their lives now shaped by their own choices and dreams. There was a profound tenderness in imagining them perhaps one day joining us on these wandering roads, even if just for a fleeting season. The misty landscape seemed to mirror our reflections - both clear and obscured, full of possibility and gentle uncertainty. We spoke of how they might find their own connection to this unconventional life we'd embraced, their potential presence adding new chapters to our ever-evolving story of freedom and discovery.
Crossing the Donaldson River, we spotted a solitary camper whose presence seemed to whisper that some moments are meant for passing by. There was a quiet understanding between us that our perfect spot lay somewhere further along this rain-kissed road. The Western Explorer's famous views remained hidden behind low clouds, creating an intimate cocoon around our travelling home as we pressed onward, guided by an invisible thread of intuition.
When the Lindsay River emerged through the mist, it felt like a homecoming we hadn't known we were seeking. The private campsite nestled alongside its flowing waters beckoned like a whispered secret, and our bus found its place there with practiced ease. In this moment of perfect solitude, we felt profoundly grateful for the freedom to pause and breathe in these precious moments of wilderness connection.
Dawn brought transformation as nature lifted her rainy veil, allowing sunshine to reclaim the sky with renewed vigour. The short distance to Arthur River ahead gave us permission to savour our morning rituals, knowing such unhurried moments were gifts to be treasured. When we finally continued our journey after lunch, we were completing a circle that had begun almost twelve months ago - a perfect metaphor for life's wonderful way of bringing us back to places we were meant to experience more fully.
The final stretch became a shared celebration of our journey. Sal took the helm of our trusted home on wheels, while Anth captured our passage through this untamed corner of Tasmania from above, the drone's eye view immortalising our moment of completion. As we approached the familiar intersection, turning west towards Arthur River, we felt the profound satisfaction of closing a circle that had begun a year ago, now enriched by countless moments that had filled our hearts along the way.En savoir plus
Where Waters Guide & Friends Meet
5–6 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 25 °C
Dawn found us departing our peaceful haven on Lake Pieman, crossing the dam wall that stood as a testament to human engineering amidst Tasmania's untamed wilderness. The journey ahead promised the unique experience of the Fatman Barge at Corinna, a crossing that would carry us deeper into the heart of Tasmania's wild west.
Our arrival at the ferry brought a moment of measured anticipation - our bus stretched the very limits of what the humble barge could bear. Yet there was something deeply symbolic about this five-minute journey across the river, a brief suspension between one world and another, floating upon the same waters that had carved these valleys over millennia.
The tiny settlement of Corinna pulsed with Sunday life, a gathering of kindred spirits drawn to this remote corner of Tasmania. The Tannin Restaurant beckoned us with promises of comfort and connection, its steak sandwich and chips becoming more than mere sustenance - rather a moment of shared pleasure in this wilderness outpost. It was here, in that curious way that the universe sometimes orchestrates perfect moments, that we spoke of Ben and Kerry, wondering aloud about their parallel journey. As if summoned by our thoughts, their familiar vehicle rolled off the barge, bringing with it the joy of unexpected reunion.
Their invitation to kayak the Pieman River felt like a gift from the wilderness itself. Soon we found ourselves gliding across dark waters, our paddles breaking the mirror-like surface in rhythmic harmony. The turn into the Whyte River brought us into a realm where time seemed to hold its breath - the encroaching wilderness creating a cathedral of ancient trees and whispered stories. In these moments, surrounded by pristine nature and shared friendship, we discovered one of those rare periods of perfect contentment that travellers sometimes stumble upon.
A fallen tree across our path became not an obstacle but a natural full stop, a gentle reminder to pause and absorb the magic of where we were. The journey back carried its own kind of peace, each paddle stroke a meditation on connection - to nature, to friends, to ourselves.
Back in Corinna, what could have been a final farewell instead became another chapter in our intertwined journeys. While Anth set off to explore the Whyte River track on foot, his run becoming a treasure hunt of geocaches, Sal found restoration in the quiet comfort of our bus, each of us honouring our own rhythms of adventure and rest.
As twilight approached and we ventured north along the Western Explorer, the Savage River beckoned us to yet another serendipitous encounter. There, playing in the river's embrace like children of the wilderness, were Ben and Kerry once more. Setting up camp alongside them felt like the most natural conclusion to a day that had woven friendship, adventure, and the wild beauty of Tasmania into an unforgettable tapestry of experiences.En savoir plus
Choosing Our Summit
4–5 janv. 2025, Australie ⋅ ☁️ 23 °C
The farewell to Trial Harbour's endless ocean horizons marked not an ending, but a transition into Tasmania's mountainous heart. Anthony Road, which had beckoned us days earlier, now welcomed us like an old friend promising new adventures. The whispers of Mount Murchison's reputation as one of Tasmania's finest short hikes pulled us forward, each kilometre bringing us closer to another chapter in our wilderness journey.
Life has a way of weaving unexpected threads into our tapestry of experiences, and so it was when we encountered a fellow wanderer, thumb extended in the universal gesture of the hiking community. His presence in our bus felt natural, another soul drawn to Tasmania's wild places, reminiscent of the kindred spirit we'd met at Frenchman's Cap. These brief intersections with fellow travellers always remind us of the beautiful community that exists among those who hear the mountains' call.
The trail's initial ascent spoke directly to our muscles, each step a conversation between body and mountain. But nature has a way of rewarding effort with wonder, and as we broke through the tree line, the heart of Tasmania's wilderness unveiled itself in a moment that stole our breath more effectively than any climb. The ocean views we'd left just an hour before felt like memories from another life as we stood surrounded by this new world of rocky peaks and endless horizons.
Our upward journey became a meditation in motion, each step revealing new perspectives of the wild landscape surrounding us. When we reached the rope ascent, three-quarters of the way to the summit, we found ourselves at a metaphorical crossroads as much as a physical one. Here, resting with water and trail snacks, we had one of those profound conversations that seem to flow more naturally in high places.
The decision not to push for the summit came from a place of deep contentment rather than limitation. We'd embarked on this journey seeking epic views and soul-stirring moments, not simply to tick boxes on some arbitrary list of achievements. The spectacular panorama already surrounding us had filled our spirits to overflowing, and sometimes wisdom lies in recognising when you've already received the gift you came seeking.
Our descent carried its own kind of joy, gentler on the legs but rich with reflection. Back at the bus, noting our fellow hiker had continued his own journey, we felt that familiar pull toward our next destination. Tullah's riverside camping ground may have been full on this busy Saturday, but in our nomadic life, such minor setbacks merely open doors to new possibilities.
The shores of Lake Pieman offered themselves as our sanctuary for the night, a perfect alternative to rushing for the Corinna ferry's last crossing. This is the beauty of our chosen life - the freedom to let go of arbitrary deadlines and embrace the serendipity of each moment. As we settled in beside the lake's mirrored surface, we were reminded once again that sometimes the most beautiful destinations are the ones we never planned to find.En savoir plus
VoyageurNSW you do have to go to the summit! Reminds me a bit of Scotland!
VoyageurNow that’s different!
Voyageur
Love this photo ❤️
Voyageur
OMG. Isn’t he beautiful!!!